


How The Mighty Have Fallen

by purplefury



Series: The True Beast Is Man [4]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Language, Past Relationship(s), everyone makes an appearance - Freeform, warning will mainly apply to chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24445063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplefury/pseuds/purplefury
Summary: When the group ventures to Northreach in hopes of closure for their dear friend, they find something is amiss.(A re-imagining of Therion's Chapter 4)
Relationships: H'aanit & Therion (Octopath Traveler)
Series: The True Beast Is Man [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728811
Comments: 14
Kudos: 59





	1. Infiltration

To Linde, the Frostlands represent her third home. First comes S’warkii’s lush forests, and second comes her companion’s strange yet loving pack. Full of troubled souls yet noble hearts, she’s grown to love them all. It’s why she braves the northern peaks of these lands on their behalf. With kisses upon her forehead, her master - no, her best friend - requested that she lead the group. She takes a huntress’ pride in the task, tail swishing confidently to assure those following her.

Together, they climb to the highest point of Orsterra, to what they hope is one journey’s end.

The group catches on to H’aanit’s movements, blocking the cliffs throughout the trek. She notes Therion’s brief glances and wonders what he’s thinking.

Upon reaching the steps leading toward the city, the group takes cover behind a cliff face. Linde circles around before sitting at H’aanit’s feet.

“What is it, Linde?” She crouches to place her forehead against hers, and they speak without words.

“Truly?” H’aanit expresses surprise. Linde swishes her tail to confirm, nuzzling her face against her best friend.

“I thanken thee.”

Linde turns around, allowing H’aanit to untie the purple ribbon from her tail. Tucking it inside her coat, she gives one last embrace before sending her forth. Linde backs up before leaping onto the cliffs above, climbing higher and following the ledge toward Northreach.

“Linde will scouteth the town from above. Thou must not calleth her by name, but watcheth for signs. When the time cometh, she will appearen.”

“Knowing Darius, the place is probably crawling with his men,” Therion adds. “Best to pair up and keep a low profile.”

“If thou desiren stealth, then I shall joineth thee,” H’aanit volunteers first. Given recent events, no one argues the decision.

“Is there anything else we must know, my friend?” Olberic asks.

Therion peruses his thoughts.

“Just one: don’t kill if you don’t have to.”

Olberic understands, yet his expression prompts further explanation.

“Stealth aside, a lot of the bandits back in Wellspring were kids. They had the same eyes I did, blindly following, wanting to please.” He lets out a sigh. “They deserve better. I know they do.”

Therion’s wisdom resonates with the others, and they unanimously support his wishes. 

“Will do,” Alfyn gives a reassuring smile before resting a hand on Tressa’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s check out the shops. See what we can find.” 

He passes Therion with a light hug and kind words against his ear.

“We’re here for ya.”

Tressa turns toward him as well, adopting a softer yet confident tone.

“Don’t worry, okay? We got this.”

Therion merely nods as the pair sets off. 

“I shall go to the inn, then,” Ophilia volunteers next. “I’ve learned that it’s not only discounts they give women like me.”

“In that case, I will accompany you,” Olberic declares. “One can never be too careful.”

Ophilia agrees, and when the sun rises above the next mountain peak, they offer their blessings and depart for the city.

“Well, that leaves the two of us, Professor,” Primrose winks. “We’ll take the tavern this time. Better work that charm.”

“I prefer observing rather than instigating, but I will do what I must,” Cyrus pulls over the hood of his Frostlands coat. “Pray that I need not set the tavern alight.”

Primrose reminds her companions to hold faith before ascending the stairs, and Cyrus turns to offer a quick “good luck” before following Primrose’s lead.

The sun rises past another peak in their line of sight.

“What sayest thou?” H’aanit inquires.

A thick mist leaves Therion’s mouth as he processes the moment. “We’ll scout the city in whole. See what we find, and if nothing else, we hit the tavern.”

“Thou art sure of thine approach?”

“When haven’t I been?”

H’aanit gives a telling look. 

“I know, I know. But this way, no one has to get hurt. I hope.”

When they reach the top of the stairs, H’aanit peers out toward the bridge. A frozen lake glistens beneath, and if not for their purpose here, she would find the sight beautiful. No guard awaits them as they approach the city gates.

They hope together.

* * *

Compared to the scent of flora and roasted game, the frigid air of Northreach stifles H’aanit. Old castle walls cage in the wary townsfolk, who avoid eye contact as they go about their business. Heads turn as they pass unlit streets, like prey anticipating the predator. Windows rattle as a woman hastily shuts her door.

“Thou feelest the same dread?” 

Therion merely pulls up his scarf.

Near the inn, a forlorn merchant collects his senses in front of them. _Thieves_ , he mutters aloud and grasps handfuls of snow for fallen leaves. The townsfolk give passing stares before shuffling away, never to approach.

H’aanit’s heart twists at the sight. She steps forward to help until Therion holds her arm. He shares her woes.

“Can’t do that now. C’mon.”

Reluctant steps trudge through the snow. H’aanit observes the cliffs, spotting a prowling Linde beyond the castle walls. She skulks about, stares down at snow-laden rooftops, and continues forth.

“Dost nary a guard watcheth from atop the walls?” She eyes an equally suspicious Therion.

“He’s not _that_ stupid,” he murmurs. “Still, watch your back.”

When they reach the crossroads of the city, H’aanit spots a potential target: the city armorer. During travels with her friend Eliza of the Knights Ardante, they exchanged knowledge of traditional and modern weaponry. Even if words halt upon her tongue, she may save herself through the knowledge alone.

“I shall inquiren of the keeper there,” she informs.

“Alone? Talking’s my game if you need the extra hand.”

“I hath learneth much from thee,” she smiles. “‘Tis best we meeten later.”

“Heh, I’ll leave you to it, then,” he mirrors the townsfolk’s hurried steps across the adjacent street.

H’aanit opens the door with too much force - a bad habit of hers. The shop keeper brandishes a blade, cursing with the realization. He sets it beneath the counter, acting as if nothing happened.

“Er, what can I do yer for, traveler?” 

Undeterred, she wears a fake smile, hoping the speech can keep up.

“Greetings. I seeketh weaponry for hunting amongst these lands.”

“Huntin’, huh?” he peruses the sparse wares. “Blade? Dagger?”

“I preferen the bow, thanken thee.”

“Sharpshooter, ain’t yer? ‘Fraid we’re lackin’ of the sort”, he returns to the counter. “Normally they keep away from me shop, but them brigands cleared me stock right under me nose. Gotten mighty bold, they ‘ave.”

Feeling words twist upon her tongue, H’aanit resorts to her tried and true method. Removing a modest pouch of leaves from her pocket, she drops it onto the counter. Her face is all business.

“Telleth more of these brigands.”

The keeper gives a skeptical glance, but smirks when he peers into the contents. The mood shifts with his eyes, confirming boarded windows and no prying eyes.

“Listen close, ‘cause I ain’t gonna repeat it.” 

H’aanit assesses the scene before leaning close.

“Feels like many moons ago, but outta nowhere, them brigands started swarmin’ the place. First a ragtag group, then a whole lotta gray cloaks. Plunderin’ from townsfolk, travelers - hell, even the guards - for their own gain. Children don’t play in the streets no more, folks run aroun’ in fear, and what guards are left turn a blind eye. Got it so far?”

H’aanit nods, concern brewing within her chest.

“Oh, but that ain’t all.” He retrieves a tattered paper underneath the counter and slides it toward H’aanit. 

She faces a crude portrait of Therion - a wanted man with whom involvement would directly oppose “Lord Darius.” H’aanit scoffs at the title, yet realizes the heightened stakes of their mission.

“Them posters are all over town: shops, tavern, yer name it. Not mine. I don’t give a damn about ‘is personal business, but we’re strugglin’ ‘ere. Yer gotta have stones to visit a town run by petty thieves.”

H’aanit’s eyes bore through the poster, and she etches this false lord into her mind.

“I see… and what of this Darius?”

The keeper’s shared contempt quells her anger.

“Never met ‘im, but sounds like the mate’s got a stick up ‘is ass.”

H’aanit smirks at the phrase. She’s learned a lot from Therion.

“Dost thou knoweth of his location?”

“Eh? Why do yer wanna know that?”

She grips the air with a hand. “I may wisheth to putten another.”

It takes a moment, but the shop owner forces back a laugh.

“I like yer already,” he looks around the shop once more before whispering. “Back o’ the town’s been abandoned for some time. It’s yer best bet.”

“I thanken thee,” she nods and prepares to leave the armorer.

“Say, traveler, yer heard about someone slayin’ a godsdamned dragon in these lands? Thought it was a myth, but rumors were spreadin’ fast.”

Chuckling, H’aanit turns around with a charm that would make Primrose shiver.

“Thou hath spoken to her.”

The keeper stares back in awe.

“Thought yer fit the description! Shoulda told me I was speakin’ with a legend!” he crosses his arms in approval, spirit restored from a friendly face. “I got yer back. If ya see that Darius, kick ‘is ass for me, will yer?”

“We shall see,” she waves upon leaving.

* * *

H’aanit meets Therion in one of the many dark alleys. She has yet to encounter a single brigand. What sparks her curiosity, however, is the renewed strength in Therion’s eyes.

“Thou hast been somewhere.”

“Talked to an old butler in an old house. I’m also wanted, but what else is new,” he says, nodding toward a neglected road. “Though he did give me a lead.”

“As did the result of my inquiry,” she states, sharing details from her meeting. “Soundeth as if two allies hath joineth our side.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Therion gazes toward the cliffs. “Any sign of Linde?”

H’aanit shakes her head when the castle walls obscure her vision.

“I trusteth her senses. If she hath not alerted us, she deemeth the path safe.”

Therion’s about to respond when the pair hears something shatter nearby. A plume of dust clouds the air before falling upon the snow. Silently, they approach the source. Several thuds against the ground draw them closer until they converge toward a dingy alley.

On H’aanit’s cue, the two emerge from their spots with drawn weapons.

“Whoa, ya got me,” Alfyn raises his hands innocently. Beside him lies evidence proving otherwise: four unconscious gray cloaks lie prone in the dirty snow.

“Where’s Tressa?” Therion asks.

Alfyn gestures nearby, where a drowsy Tressa offers a slight smile.

“Just takin’ a breather,” she sleepily nods.

“Didn’t expect the sleepweed dust to spread that far. She only caught the edge after lurin’ them here, but give her a minute, and she’ll be good to go.” He addresses Tressa with a sheepish look. “Sorry ‘bout that again.”

She waves the apology off.

While H’aanit checks Tressa’s condition, Therion keeps an eye on the streets.

“You the reason for the missing thieves?”

“Not just me. Phili and Olberic were goin’ at it themselves. Even saw Prim leadin’ a poor guy from the tavern. Professor’s on the loose though,” Alfyn conceals the last gray cloak. “Either they’re bad at their jobs, or somethin’s off.” 

“Yeah,” Therion crosses his arms. “Linde hasn’t picked up anything, either.”

“Hm,” Alfyn hesitates, but figures that there’s no better moment. “I didn’t wanna bring it up again, but Darius...”

Therion eyes him with suspicion, but they’re not cold. Alfyn lowers his voice to a whisper.

“After what he did to ya, I’ve never wanted to kill another man more in my life, and I already…”

“Hey,” Therion is gentle in tone. “We can talk about that later, but right now, we have to focus.”

“Right,” Alfyn takes a deep breath. “Even back in Wellspring, he left a bad taste in my mouth, leadin’ his team around like he owned ‘em. Maybe we’re not the only ones who see it.”

Therion’s still thinking when Tressa shakes off the last of the sleepweed, rising to her feet. Satisfied, H’aanit returns at his side.

“If ya don’t see us, we’re here helpin’ the townsfolk if things go south. Now go,” Alfyn gives a resolute smile.

The four exchange best wishes, and together, H’aanit and Therion weave between run-down homes toward their destination.

* * *

Both of their sources spoke the truth. The snow falls harder, blanketing the ground in pure white. Save for the rustling of bare branches, the silence speaks volumes. Here, they would conclude the journey.

They hear crunches of snow in their direction, and hands raise in defense when the purple cloak meets axe and blade.

“Cyrus,” H’aanit lowers her weapon. Therion follows suits after confirming himself.

Hands raise higher only to remove the hood, and Cyrus lets out a huff. He gestures for them to follow him behind an abandoned home before explaining further.

“This cloak irritates the skin, but more importantly, I did not require it in the first place. I encountered nary a brigand other than the one I accosted.”

“It seemeth our friends hath done their duty,” H’aanit shares Alfyn’s findings with him.

“I concur that they are a rather disorganized bunch. From what I gleaned at the tavern, they feign might when I can see the fear in their eyes. This is not a life they truly wish to live.”

A lorn cathedral sits at the edge of the city, seeking a sacred flame of its own. Wild grass clings to its foundation, but the walls keep them away.

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Therion states dryly. 

As the two discuss strategies, H’aanit sneaks away to scout the scene. The front doors remain the only visible entrance, and mindful of her habit, she quietly opens one of them. It creaks for a second, but stops as she slips in through the gap.

The dark atmosphere and dusty air greets her senses. Brushing cobwebs aside, she spots a peculiar handle on the ground. The outline against the wood confirms her suspicions, and she notes her findings upon return.

“Took me a second to notice you’d left,” Therion appears proud. “So?”

“A strange door lieth within the cathedral. I hath nary a doubt that our quarry hideth below.”

Therion hums and glances toward Cyrus. “You ready for this?”

“As I will ever be,” he confirms, relaying the plan to H’aanit. “Once I have lured out the brigands, we shall occupy them here. Do not let them back inside, but do remember our friend’s rule.”

“Thou thinkest I will killeth upon first sight?”

“Well, you have done so before.”

“‘Tis true,” she says. “If thou hast agreed upon it, I shall helpen thee.”

“Your words give me strength,” Cyrus smiles. Removing his cloak, he holds it toward Therion. “Now then, I believe this is in your hands.”

A bit large, but it’ll do. Therion accepts it with a silent thanks.

“Our friends watch over the city as we speak. Let us pray for their success.”

H’aanit takes her position as Cyrus strides forward with an air of nobility.

“Stay safe, you two,” Therion murmurs before moving out of sight.

“O Aelfric, Bringer of the Flame,” Cyrus professes with candor. “I humbly apologize.”

The wind magic swells in his palms, and he sends the gale pounding against the cathedral. Stone walls tremble and the sky rains shards of glass, windows no more.

A minute passes, and gray cloaks flood through the entrance. A portion breaks off toward the city gates, hollering about not dealing with this anymore. The rest encounter an esteemed sorcerer with a penchant for chaos. 

As Cyrus prepares a second spell, H’aanit looses an arrow into a brigand’s leg. She braces against the second gale, and heads meet the knob of her axe with a thump. Thieves circle around her, and she provokes them forward.

Two thieves rush toward Cyrus, blades aimed for his neck, when a magical force sweeps him aside. He’s still light on his feet as H’aanit knocks out his assailants.

“Tressa?”

“You know it!” she emerges with an air of confidence. “Saw Prim and Phili guiding the townsfolk when this old man showed me a shortcut. Therion makes friends with butlers?”

“That is not my business,” Cyrus says. “And thank you for your aid.”

“No worries,” Tressa eyes the disarray, preparing her own spell. “So, what’s the plan?” 

“As Therion would say - give them hell.”

“Easy enough!” And Tressa releases the gale toward the unfortunate souls.

When H’aanit reaches behind for an arrow, a shield blocks the one aimed for her back. A protective shadow looms over her.

“Just in time,” Olberic announces, beckoning the gray cloak for a challenge. Seeing his stance, the thief quivers in fear before fleeing the premises.

“I passed a shop keeper on the way. He said I would find the ‘dragon slayer’ here?”

They pivot, back-to-back, and said dragon slayer immobilizes a foe with her axe. Olberic follows suit with another.

“I liketh the name.”

Amidst the frenzy, a purple cloak dashes from the shadows into the cathedral - and crashes into a fellow gray cloak.

“Oi, watch it!” a gruff voice sounds.

The gray cloak squeaks, admitting he can’t stick around for this mess any longer.

“If yer goin’ to warn Lord Darius, he’s in a frightful mood!”

“Better than lettin’ some bastard run in without ‘im knowin’! Now stop gawkin’ and go so I never gotta see yer ugly mug again.” 

“Y-Yes, sir!” the gray cloak trips over himself on the way out.

Therion descends the stairs with a smirk.

* * *

“The hell ya mean they’re bailin’ town!?” Darius presses his hands against the wooden table. 

Another gale whips through the ceiling, rattling the cellar walls. Glass bottles shatter on the floor and chairs slide toward walls. The thieves fear for their safety, but Darius glowers. 

“What are ya lot standin’ ‘ere for? Go an’ see what’s ‘appenin’!”

“But my lord-” one of the new recruits protests.

“Ya ‘eard what I said.”

The recruit crosses his arms, muttering to who he thinks is himself.

“If Gareth was still ‘ere, he’d-”

The murder in his boss’ eyes shuts him up.

“Don’t.”

A gulp, and Darius sets his mug down hard. Mead sloshes and splashes across the table.

“Get out before I _really_ hurt ya.”

The young recruit wastes no time, hurried steps pattering away, never to return. Two thieves exchange looks behind their boss’ back before exiting.

Darius pushes himself from the table and retreats further into the cellar. He picks the splinters from his palms and broods. Gareth… his right-hand man, slain by a former flame. To be struck down by no petty thief, but the tea leaf himself, is a cruel twist of fate. Why can’t the past just lie down and die?

Said flame’s probably searching for him right now, all cocky and bristling. Sentimental too, the godsdamned fool. No matter how many times he tried to beat it out of him, the fool held onto his worst trait. Such a trait would only lead to more betrayal. 

Darius knows better. He always does. 

And he knows he’ll choke out the flame for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which agents of chaos (mostly cyrus) try not to completely destroy a place of worship. aelfric, help them all.
> 
> Part 2 is largely complete, and I aim to post it sometime next week!


	2. Confrontation

It’s quiet.

Therion keeps a steady pace as he sneaks through the cellars, dodging broken rubble in his path. The scent of mead permeates the air, and he passes its source: a large dining area with overturned chairs and abandoned mugs. Cyrus sure worked his magic.

Hearing footsteps, Therion presses his back against a broken pillar. Hushed voices enter and linger, though he cannot make out the words. They sound tense, yet oddly in no hurry. Lacking the luxury of time, he ventures forth in silence.

Light filters through the space atop a long flight of stairs. Once he ascends, the air feels cool and crisp against his skin. Mountain fog hovers in the air as Therion traverses endless corridors, snow flurries drifting onto his cloak. At last, angel statues greet him at the base of the grand steps leading to the altar. He walks along the worn aisle, rows of forgotten pews on each side. Wild grass pokes through cracks in the ground, while large chunks of the cathedral walls open toward snow-capped cliffs. 

Two stone displays rest upon the altar - both empty.

“Took ya long enough, Therion.”

Darius strides from behind a broken pillar. His normally groomed hair, straight and combed back, tangles in front of his face. He slicks a greasy strand in place with a tinge of annoyance.

“Idiots, the lot of ’em. They ‘ad one job and they go and fuck it all up. But enough about ‘em. We both know why yer ‘ere.”

The leery smile beneath the light chills Therion’s blood.

“Stones be damned, mate. Ya want more than that, more than the bangle off yer scrawny wrist.”

Therion glares. Angel statues stare upon them in judgment; it’s a journey’s end straight to hell.

“Ya hate me, don’t ya?”

“I never said that.”

“So ya still love me, after all.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Darius descends the stairs, emphasizing each step.

“Ya used to be more fun than this, _partner_ ,” Darius laughs with an unnerving calm. “Can’t deny all the good times we’ve ‘ad afore.”

Therion nearly steps back, but he holds fast. Beneath the cloak, a hand rests on the hilt of his short sword. He remembers the days all too well: fighting alongside each other, protecting one another, and rejoicing in their spoils.

Past memories. That’s all they were.

“So we’ve had. But you’ve changed.”

“Ah, but life’s all about change,” he descends further. “Can’t get nowhere in the world without yer tools in hand. I molded ya, kept ya nice and shiny, and ya always did what I wanted.”

Therion narrows his eyes.

“Now if ya only stayed a godsdamned naif, all woulda been fine and dandy!”

He’s had enough of his games. Time to play one of his own.

“With all due respect, ‘Lord’ Darius”- he says with plain disrespect - “fuck you.” 

Those eyes. He _hates_ those eyes.

Nostrils flare, and then there are stomps against stone and blade against blade. Therion parries the blow, sliding back as the impact jolts his arm. Steel clangs among a swirl of cloaks, and it all feels so wrong. 

It’s a chaotic dance, agile steps and pounding heels against the ground. Blades slice through air, and a second parry rattles Therion’s sword hand. He darts toward the pews lining the aisle.

“Ya damn rat!”

Therion weaves in and out, over and around. Metal and muscle clunks against heavy wood as the damn rat escapes his blade. An elbow strikes a wooden corner and sets Darius’ nerves alight. Rage echoes through the air.

Caught up in his act, Therion sees the red glow beneath Darius’ cloak. He ducks into a roll as hellfire rages from the soulstone, setting several pews and his cloak alight. He sheds and tosses the garment aside, patting a singed glove against his leg.

“You never learned, did you?” Therion huffs. Sparks form at his fingertips.

“Shut up!” Darius goes for the kill.

Following Cyrus’ words, a blast of fire surges from Therion’s palm, smashing Darius against a stone pillar. He clutches his head, reeling from the spell’s power.

“Heh, stronger than afore, I’ll give ya that,” Darius shrugs the flaming cloak off his shoulders, sword at the ready. “No more tricks - honest fightin’ from ‘ere!”

It’s a lie, and Therion’s arm pays the price. Red soaks through the blue coat as he retaliates. Darius’ strikes are weaker than before, less precise. Backing off, they circle each other.

“Ya look tired, partner,” Darius pants, pushing greasy locks from his face.

Therion readies his blade. Even breaths, steady stance.

“Just hurt.”

And he’s off again, the scraping of steel echoing in harsh discord. When Darius swings wide, Therion slices across his abdomen. Darius staggers back with a grunt, hand pressing against the wound. 

Why is he laughing?

“So ya tossed me away for yer so-called friends, huh, Theri?”

There’s a twist in Therion’s chest.

“What?”

He’s coming closer.

“Prized treasure or not, there’s somethin’ they’ll never give ya.”

He’s close, too close.

“No one will ever love ya the way I did.”

And Darius seizes his arm and slams him to the ground. Both swords slide away from their grasps.

“If ya’d kept yer pretty ‘ead down and yer damn mouth shut, we could’ve ‘ad somethin’ special,” Darius withdraws a dagger, holding it above his right eye. 

He has the nerve to sound gentle, and he fucking hates it. 

Therion tries to shove him off, but the attempt earns him a knee against his hip and a crushing grip around his neck. Hands clutch Darius’ arm, but he pushes to no avail. Tears well in his eyes as he chokes under his grasp.

“My ugly mug’s the last thing yer gonna see - what an honor.”

A glint of light reflects off the blade. The dagger plunges down -

\- and grazes Therion’s cheek before clattering against the ground.

Darius yells and wrenches his hand from Therion’s throat. Linde snarls with rage as she sinks her fangs deep into the beast’s leg, flesh tearing, blood spurting from the wound. She bites down harder, dragging his flailing body away from her dear friend. 

Therion claws at the dagger before curling into himself. He clutches his neck in a coughing fit, raspy breaths burning his throat. Bringing a hand to his cheek, it’s wet with blood. His vision is blurry and unfocused as he stares at his hand, but a crisp line of red soon greets him. 

Huffing in relief, he drops his head onto the floor.

Panicked, Darius flails about for his lost dagger. Angel statues stare down at carnage as Linde damns his existence with bloody fangs. Cursing aloud, he prepares to kick her with his free leg. A well-placed arrow shatters the plan, and he crumples to the floor.

“A wrong choice,” H’aanit seethes, venom in her voice. She steps between the two, guarding Therion’s shaking form. Linde releases her fangs and joins them with bared teeth. 

“Tryest thy trickery, and it shall be thine head.”

Linde hovers close to her friend, wary of touching him. Therion raises his head, and seeing her snout marred with blood (seeing what she’s done for him), he wants to comfort her. He reaches out to stroke the scruff of her neck with all the silent gratitude he can give.

The arrow in Darius’ leg is a mere splinter compared to the rage in his chest. He was so close, so damn close.

Behind H’aanit, Therion locks eyes with Darius, and former partners wonder where the hell they went wrong.

“So it’s come to this,” Darius says. Slow, pained laughs turn chilling.

“Must’ve hit yer ‘ead on the way down, Therion. Do ya remember what I taught ya - what ‘appens when ya trust others?”

H’aanit clenches her fist, fury in her eyes. On the way down…

The realization hits. The panic in Therion’s eyes as he hung from the precipice, the tension, the tears…

_“He hurt me.”_

Those very words provoke her once more, and the pieces come together when she sees who shattered them.

“Thou art the traitor.”

Darius weakly chuckles as blood drips from his wounds.

“Wouldn’t call it that. Ya do what ya gotta do to survive. To be stepped on, to step on others - all part of ‘uman nature.”

“What thou didst to Therion is not natural,” H’aanit scowls. “He hath putten trust in thee, and thou hath throweth him away!”

Therion pushes his upper body off the floor, still recovering from the shock of it all. 

“Ya got me legs. Might as well end it ‘ere and now.”

H’aanit grasps an arrow, but keeps her bow lowered.

“...I get it,” Darius gives a dark grin. “Trustin’ Therion to finish me off? Or lettin’ me bleed out ‘cause he can’t do it? Thought he’d do anythin’ for ‘is friends.”

She raises the bow and glares.

“If the naif cares about ya so much, then why ain’t he pullin’ ‘is weight? Sittin’ all pretty while ya do the work for ‘im,” Darius gestures. “And ‘ere I was about’ta praise ‘is skills as a tea leaf.” 

Therion stares back. He was so sure, and now he’s so damn confused.

“How darest thou speaketh of him like so!”

“Can’t walk, so I’ll speaketh ‘owever the hell I want!” Darius retorts. “If they don’t work the way ya want ‘em, ya throw ‘em out! And that’s what I did. Played ‘im like a damn fiddle until he was worth less than dirt beneath me heels.” 

“Darius.” The fire in Therion’s eyes wavers. 

“Thou must not listen!” 

“Ya listen up! Got two workin’ ears, so listen well! Any thief worth ‘is salt’s gotta defend ‘is pride, so stand up!”

_“Stoppen this!”_

“Darius…”

**“Ya wanna kill me, Therion?! Then come ‘ere! My arms are wide open!”**

This beast speaks of her dear friend like an object, a tool for its sick pleasure. It treats Therion like nothing compared to their found family, who treats him like everything.

It boils her blood. 

The divine energy emanates from H’aanit’s chest and encompasses her body, bathing the cathedral in orange light. The ground rumbles, and storm clouds gather overhead as lightning streaks through the sky. Stone cracks beneath, around, and above as the energy materializes into a colossal bow. The charged air sends winds gusting, dust flying, eyes widening. H’aanit’s glowing eyes pierce through her target; her rage and the goddess Draefendi’s are one.

When H’aanit nocks the arrow, the divine bow mirrors her movements and locks onto her target.

“H’aan-” Therion coughs as the winds assault his senses. He stares at the crippled Darius, who mouths an inaudible “fuck”.

Linde whines and jams her claws into the ground, bracing herself for the storm.

Thunder booms above, and the divine bow glows brighter, heating the air around it. It’s as if Draefendi herself stands before mere mortals, muscles straining, eyes burning with unadulterated fury. 

“H’aanit!” his muscles protest, but Therion forces himself up. A bloody hand clutches her arm, and the goddess’ wrath courses through his veins. He grits his teeth and endures the pain.

“You don’t have to do this for me! Please.”

_Please._

She hears him. She sees him: a dear friend in her eyes, and the fear in his own. And she remembers.

_Giveth Therion the final word._

_Protecteth his heart._

...

_Protecteth him._

The rage subsides, and the colossal bow dims and dissipates into orange specks. While the clouds remain, the sky is quiet. As the winds calm and the dust settles, snow flurries fall upon them once more. A drained H’aanit lands on her knees against the ground, heaving from the strain. Linde’s at her side, sniffing to confirm her companion is still with them. Limbs tremble as the last of Draefendi’s spirit leaves her, and she can barely look Therion in the eye.

“I… I am sorry.”

Therion shakes his head, keeping her steady.

Amidst the chaos, they don’t notice the two thieves until Linde stands guard, snarling in their direction.

“Fuckin’ hell-” the gray cloak surveys the scene in horror.

“Easy, kitty,” the purple cloak says. “We’re not ‘ere for ya.”

They watch as the pair strides toward their mangled leader.

“About damn time! Hurry up!”

“Yes, my lord.” 

They grasp each of Darius’ arms with one hand-

\- and Therion sees the knife.

A strangled gasp leaves Darius’ throat as it plunges into his back.

“Been meanin’ to do this fer a while,” the assailant smirks, twisting the blade for good measure. Darius groans as his body slumps to the floor, face hitting the stone. 

“Ya... traitors…!”

“That requires loyalty, first! Been fed up with yer ‘leadership’ for ages. While ya were fightin’ with yer mate ‘ere, we were haulin’ off all yer treasure!” the purple cloak boasts. “Waitin’ fer the right time, we were.”

“What…?”

”It’s what ya deserve after how ya treated us,” the gray cloak says somberly.

“Liar! I … I cared about ya lot!” Darius’ voice rises in anger, bitter from betrayal in a pool of his blood.

“The hell ya did,” the purple cloak chimes in. “ _Gareth_ did. Treated us fine, and the new kids even better. He ‘specially gave a damn about ya - and ya threw ‘im away. Same ‘appen with yer mate?”

Therion’s supporting H’aanit. The look in his eyes says enough.

“Ya dodged an arrow ‘ere. Better off without the bastard.” 

The purple cloak orders the gray cloak to grab whatever’s left of Darius’ stash and skip town. Nothing left for them here.

“If yer done with yer business, best be on yer way. Cold as fuck up ‘ere.”

The thieves retreat, leaving old scores to settle.

Therion’s mind is white noise, but his body acts for him. Taking a deep breath, he slowly walks toward a dying Darius. H’aanit doesn’t stop him.

Therion meets bloody clothes and ragged breaths. Staring down, he feels sadness and pity toward his former partner. 

“It must‘ve been lonely at the top, huh?” 

He understands loneliness well. Yet, he’d rather live as a shadow in the night than a false king on a throne, for after reaching the top, one must come down. 

Oh, how far he has fallen.

“You’ve haunted my dreams, my memories. I always wondered how you felt after you betrayed me… now I know.”

When Therion faces away, a weak hand grasps his ankle.

“...Part…ner…”

Even near death, the voice threatens to pull him back. A voice that once filled a room with boisterous laughter, victory cheers and sweet nothings. Yet, laughter became lies, and sweet nothings became nothing. He became nothing to him, yet Darius still tries to make him stay.

It’s not love.

As Darius lies prone, broken and betrayed, Therion knows he can no longer help him. Tea leaves and broken teapots aren’t meant to be together, in the end. 

He shrugs him off without a word. The hand falls limp onto stone, never to move again.

Save for a clatter of coins in the distance, no one speaks. H’aanit rubs the ache in her shoulders, watching Therion with the same somber gaze. Linde wants to join his side, but H’aanit motions for her to wait. Tail drooping, Linde slinks outside, presumably to clean herself of the beast’s blood.

Therion does what comes naturally to him, though he often wishes it never did. Kneeling beside Darius, he searches his body. It’s stiff, turning cold against his fingers. Though he feels the loot in his pockets, Therion feels hollow inside. The two dragonstones, a coin pouch… and a frozen apple. He examines it closely, noting the rotten patches preserved beneath the melting frost.

He sets the apple down.

A final glance, and he returns, holding an arm out to H’aanit as she stands. She gratefully accepts the aid, and they wrap an arm around each other for support. Together, they leave with nary a look back.

The two stagger as they climb up a flight of stairs. Feeling the world spin, they stop and lean against a wall for support. H’aanit realizes Linde doesn’t accompany them when the leopard darts forward from the top of the steps. 

Two pairs of muscled arms catch them before they hit the floor.

* * *

“Therion?”

A soft groan.

“Hey.”

“Alfyn?”

“That’s my name.”

A rustle of blankets, then a hand urges him down.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Therion’s vision clears, revealing a weary yet relieved Alfyn.

“You-”

“-look like shit? Said that last time.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes wandering. 

“Where am I?” 

“At the inn,” Alfyn prepares something in his hands. “You and H’aanit passed out back there - no way we’re sleepin’ in a cave. Olberic’s guardin’ our rooms, just in case.”

Therion nods, mind drifting as Alfyn relays the past events. Thieves left the town in droves, and Tressa bribed the innkeeper with leaves to keep his mouth shut. Sleep would not come easily, but after their ordeal, this was the best choice for everyone.

“And H’aanit?”

”Phili’s lookin’ after her. Whole town saw what happened there. I’m still tryin’ to process it all,” Alfyn admits. “Hold still, gonna check your face.”

He feels a gentle hand brush his hair aside, and something cold dabs at his cheek. It stings for a moment, but subsides as a bandage rests over the wound.

“This one shouldn’t scar, but I’ll take extra precautions,” Alfyn reassures.

Therion hums, sinking into the pillows. It’s heavenly compared to icy rock cliffs and death’s near embrace. Even if he tried, he can’t fight the fatigue in his bones.

He hears the clinking of vials and a clasp of the familiar satchel. Hands pat against ruffled clothes, and a sigh fills the air.

“...Can you stay?”

Footsteps pause, and Alfyn fixes his attention on him. Therion averts his gaze, face half-covered beneath the blanket.

Alfyn’s at his side again. His voice is soft. Warm.

“‘Course. I’m here for ya, so don’t ya worry.”

He’s here. Everyone’s here. For him.

Eyes closed, Therion hears retreating footsteps and hushed voices near the door. It shuts, and the footsteps return.

He feels Alfyn place another blanket over him before falling asleep.

* * *

Three days later, H’aanit assembles the firewood in the town square, oblivious to the eyes upon her. Spectators watch in wonder rather than fear, though some remain wary of Linde’s presence. The armorer keeper, a prominent member of their fair city, has quelled their worries. The dragon slayer and her companions did more than the thanks they can ever give.

Clutching a small soulstone, gifted by Primrose, she aims it toward the mound. Fire streams out in a straight line, and the disintegrating stone meets smoky air.

The keeper steps forward and hands H’aanit a burlap sack. They exchange nods before he joins the townsfolk in reflective silence.

Untying the sack, H’aanit dumps the contents onto the snow. Torn from Northreach’s walls, crumpled wanted posters (none of which capture Therion’s good sides) lie at her feet. She stares with a mix of solace and sorrow for him. Linde nuzzles her for comfort, and H’aanit places several kisses upon her forehead before embracing her in full. She, too, allows the silent gratitude to flow as the seconds pass. She thanks Linde for watching over her, watching over her friends, and protecting their hearts. No treasures can ever compare.

The crackle of wood reminds her of the task at hand. Onward, then.

Together, they feed the flames: H’aanit scoops the papers in handfuls, and Linde sweeps them closer with her tail. ‘Lord’ Darius can no longer pester this town, and at least in person, he can no longer pester her dear friend.

Kneeling beside the fire, H’aanit stares at the spectators. They see her somber expression lit by the flames. She wants them to know her face, to know the cruelty is done. She will not stand for any more.

Others cautiously exit their homes to watch the fire dance, a spectacle of red among the blues. 

After many moons, they feel the flicker of warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, writing stinky man darius took more out of me than I expected... oof. he had it coming though.
> 
> That being said, I'm planning a follow-up to this, as I don't want to leave them in this state :c
> 
> (there's some alfion if you squint.... I enjoy writing them, they're so sweet)
> 
> Hope you're staying safe and taking care of yourself, especially during these times. <3  
> \-----  
> Edit 6/16/2020: I've written a companion piece for this fic titled ["Weary"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758746) \- do check it out, and thank you for reading!


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